


Patch Job

by kaesaria



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice
Genre: Aftercare, Attempt at Humor, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6982441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaesaria/pseuds/kaesaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark tends to Bruce.<br/>_____<br/>Written in response to an anonymous prompt on the dceu_kinkmeme: “antagonistic hurt/comfort.”</p><p> <i>A note* on reading this fic: Please assume that every innuendo and double entendre you encounter is intentional, unless it is not entertaining, in which case get your mind out of the gutter, perv.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Patch Job

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the OP who provided the awesome [prompt](https://dceu-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1491.html?thread=108243#cmt108243) that led to this ficlet.

Clark’s touch ghosts over his sweat-slick skin.  The flesh is tender, aching.

“No, you idiot, I need more—on my—,” Bruce winces, feels the press of fingers.  “Yes— _ah_ , yes, like that.  Finally, fuck.”

“Sorry, jeez,” Clark’s voice comes from behind him, tense, breathy.  Agitated.  “I’ve—uh, I’ve never done this before.”

Bruce locks his jaw, resists the urge to roll his eyes.  He pushes back against the pressure.  Where does Clark get off being irritated at a time like this, it’s Bruce who has to deal with his fumbling—

“Stop grinding your teeth—you have to relax or it won’t work.”  Bruce twists his head around, glares.  Clark just raises an eyebrow at him, unimpressed.  “I know that much, I’m not a complete idiot.”

“Shut up and pay attention to what you’re doing,” Bruce snaps.  He’s suddenly hyper-aware of Clark’s inhuman strength.  The hands feel huge and unyielding, like warm steel pressed against his body.  One iota of excess force and he could tear Bruce in half.

“Okay, I’m going to do it now,” Clark says.  He sounds—nervous, a little shaky.  It doesn’t bode well.  A part of Bruce is starting to regret asking for this.  He could have waited.  Probably should have waited—

“Remember to push back against me.  Don’t let yourself tense up.”

Bruce growls.  Where does this kid get off telling  _him_  how to take a—Bruce has been doing this, having this kind of thing done to him, long before Clark was even a glimmer in his alien mother’s eye, and— _oh_.

The thrust is jolting, precise.  It sends reverberations through Bruce’s whole body and everything tenses, despite himself.

“Okay, ah—okay, are you okay?”  Clark is panting a little, inanely.  His fingers are fluttering across Bruce’s skin now, over the curve of his shoulder, along the line of his spine.  He probably thinks he’s being soothing, the idiot.  Bruce wants to shake him off, pull away—but that wouldn’t help just now.

“Bruce, come on, talk to me—”

“Be quiet,” he snaps.  “Don’t move.  Give me a—give me a second.”  Bruce breathes into the pain, feels his nostrils flaring.  He forces his body to loosen, to relax into the hurt.  It takes a long moment, a few more deep, controlled breaths, then—

 _Ah_ , there. 

Bruce feels himself—slacken.  Unclench.  The pain recedes, and all that’s left is a low burning, a dull twinge that throbs in time with his heart.

“Alright,” he tells Clark, “You can—continue, now.”

Clark starts to shift behind him, presses again and Bruce hisses, feels his spine arch.  A hot slice of sensation runs up his back.  Jesus, he hadn’t realized it would be like  _this_ —it’s been too long.  He’s getting to old for this.

“Sorry, sorry—am I going too fast?”

“No, your blundering, ham-handed approach is moving at exactly the right pace,” Bruce snaps, his voice tight.  He hears the dripping acerbity in his own tone and—he winces a little, half contrite, as he feels Clark stiffen behind him.  The guy is trying his best, after all. 

Well, being nice has never been Bruce’s strong suit.  Better Clark get used to that early on if they’re going to—keep doing this kind of thing.

“It’s fine,” he says shortly.  “Keep going.  It’s just—it’s just not the way Alfred does it.”

He feels Clark freeze again for half a second.  Then he continues, a little gentler now.  It’s—better.  Bruce wants to twist back to look, but it’s useless.  The angle isn’t right.  Maybe he should keep a mirror in the tac belt; it’d be useful for situations like this—

“So—Alfred, huh?”  Clark’s voice is studiedly nonchalant.  His hands are hot against Bruce’s still-damp skin.  His big body is close behind Bruce; it seems to take up a lot of space.

Bruce does turn his head this time, ignoring the way it makes things pull and twist, unpleasantly—and Clark stops moving.  He blinks down at Bruce, innocently.

“Yes, Alfred.  Why not Alfred?”

“No—no reason,” Clark backpedals quickly.  It would be amusing if Bruce wasn’t distracted by his own… condition just now. 

“I mean, it makes sense, of course, he’s—around all the time.  I guess—I just didn’t think that you shared— _this_ with him.”

“How about we stop talking about my personal life and focus on the task at hand,” Bruce says, turning his face forward again.  Clark is still wearing his suit.  Bruce is suddenly very aware of the air ghosting across his own exposed skin.  He pushes back against Clark, urging him to get on with it—

“Okay, okay.”  Clark has the nerve to sound irritated again.  The next press comes unexpectedly, and Bruce can’t hold back his stifled grunt.  Clark hesitates—

“I swear to god, just fucking  _do it_  already.  I’m going to die of old age before you finish—”

“Hold on, this isn’t working right.  You need more—do you have another—?”

“In the drawer.”  Bruce grinds his teeth, marshals his patience.  Everything is throbbing. 

He feels Clark’s body shift, followed by some fumbling noises as he roots around.  Then the sound of the fresh tube unscrewing and— _ah_.

Clark’s fingers are newly slick.  They feel like heaven, a balm against Bruce’s tautness.

“Yes,” Bruce hears himself gasp, “That’s right—just, just like that.”

Clark rubs, gently, right at the edge of— _there_.  He’s using just the tip of his finger now, a barely-there ghost of impression against Bruce’s sensitized, twitching flesh.  It numbs the— _burn_ , and after a second Bruce’s whole body relaxes again. 

Clark is being uncharacteristically silent; Bruce can’t sense him at all other than the soft, insistent slide of that one finger.

Bruce isn’t sure if he entirely believes that the guy has never done this before.  If he’s not lying, the kid definitely has a knack for—

Clark pulls the slickness away, suddenly, then immediately comes back to press again at Bruce’s body—with a lot more than just a finger this time.

Bruce can’t hold back the next long groan that escapes him.  He holds perfectly still, drops his head and lets Clark do it, lets him do what he needs—

 _Jesus_ , he really is getting too old for this, it’s real challenge not to move, not to—

“Okay, almost—almost there,” Clark says, near the end.  His voice is—thready.

Bruce grits his teeth.  Just a little longer, just a little _more_ —

Then—

Abruptly, Clark is pulling away.  “All done.”

Bruce lets out a slow breath.  He lifts his head.  Jesus Christ.

After a long, rallying moment, Bruce gingerly raises his left arm to check the joint.  It still aches a bit, but that’s normal enough after a dislocated shoulder.  Clark had managed to pop it in without causing any further injury.

When he stretches his arms forward, Bruce can feel the many small pressure bandages now affixed against the angry red slash that had sliced painfully across his back—right through the armor, right where he couldn’t reach himself.  The numbing ointment underneath will help things heal up faster, but Bruce is pretty sure he’s going to have a new scar to add to his collection.

“Sorry that took so long,” Clark is saying, “I couldn’t just use one long strip of gauze, the way the cut runs is—”

Bruce gets to his feet, stiffly.  He turns to reach for his shirt.  Now that he’s not distracted by the injuries, by the manhandling, the cave air feels newly cool against his skin.  Against his sweat-slick chest.

“Uh, anyway,” Clark says, then raises his gaze.  “Are you—um, are you feeling better now?”

Bruce considers the lingering aches and pains all over his body.  Unpleasant, but nothing that won’t mend.

“Hmm, well enough,” he allows, grudgingly, then—

Bruce looks at Clark.  The kid’s eyes seem more black than blue just now, oddly.

“Not bad for your first time, anyway.”  Bruce smirks.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *I totally stole the "note on reading" from [this](http://www.slate.com/blogs/lexicon_valley/2015/07/17/come_or_cum_we_ask_the_hard_questions_about_when_to_use_which_sexy_term.html) nsfw article on Slate (which doesn't have anything to do with anything, but is pretty entertaining in any case).
> 
> I’m using this to fill the free space ( _Hurt/Comfort_ ) on my [Trope bingo card](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/post/142415143424/my-updated-trope-bingo-card-deadline-for-fills).
> 
>  **All comments and kudos are cherished!** You can also discuss this story (or anything else) with me on [Tumblr](http://kaesaria.tumblr.com/) or [Imzy](https://www.imzy.com/kaesaria).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Control (is Overrated)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8372938) by [LittleRedRidingHood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedRidingHood/pseuds/LittleRedRidingHood)




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